


Clean Slate

by fereldanwench



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggression, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drinking, Fresh Start, Gen, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fereldanwench/pseuds/fereldanwench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair was Fereldan, and every Fereldan came to Kirkwall with a new beginning. Hawke decided the clean slate was his, if he wanted it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clean Slate

**Author's Note:**

> Produced by the DA prompt generator: Hawke/Alistair/wipe the slate clean
> 
> This is meant to be a standalone writing exercise, but a part of me is tempted to further explore a damaged Alistair and an aggressive f!Hawke.

Marian Hawke sharply drummed her fingers against the tankard, full of untouched, warming ale, on the sticky table before her.

Isabela had promised to meet her at The Hanged Man over an hour ago, but the feisty pirate had consistently demonstrated a lack of time management. Or respect for agreements. Or both. Frankly, Hawke didn’t care what her excuse would be, and she was certain that the next time she saw Isabela, whenever that might be, her reputation for a short temper would have one more anecdote for the locals to share.

“Something wrong with your drink?”

Norah’s question pulled Hawke from her irate musings, and she ceased the rhythmic tapping, which she realized had grown progressively angrier. Hawke shook her head.

“No, it’s—”

An inebriated cry of “I am royalty! I am a prince! A prince of Ferelden!” interrupted her.

She made no effort to hide her disdain, expelling a wholly annoyed sigh.

Also disgusted, Norah shook her head. “He’s been in here the past week, babbling on about being Fereldan royalty, for all it’s worth.”

Hawke glanced around, looking for the noisy offender, and the barmaid pointed to one the tavern’s dark corners. Marian saw a light-haired man, drunkenly sloshing a stein about and spilling his ale on the unsuspecting city guard next to him. To her surprise, and to the guard’s credit, the social foul did not end in a brawl; instead, Kirkwall’s defender wiped off his armor and moved to another table. Not without a well-earned glare, however.

“So kick him out.”

Norah scoffed. “It’s The Hanged Man, love, and he’s a paying customer. You’re only kicked out if you’re loud _and_  broke.” She gestured at Hawke’s untouched drink. “Now you going to finish that or not?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll drink it.”

Hawke heard the muttered Fereldan slurs under Norah’s breath as she sauntered off. The warrior rolled her eyes but brought the mug to lips, taking a hearty sip of the brew. A few tables over, a bar fight did break out. She glared at the pair of human men, both grasping at each other in an aggressive and yet mildly humorous embrace. Hawke had concluded since being in Kirkwall that it was difficult to discern between drunk men fighting and drunk men displaying their physical attraction for one another.

The pair stumbled back onto another table, spilling more drinks and making more racket.

She missed Lothering.

Sure, Lothering’s tavern had its few disruptive drunks, but not on this scale. Before the Blight, Lothering was quiet—Folks just wanted to tend to their farms, care for their families, and live peacefully. Kirkwall was too big and too crowded and too unhappy.

“No, you shut up! You sound like that… Morrigan, that bitchy, witchy… bitch. Witch.”

And Lowtown especially was too drunk and too loud.

Hawke resumed her vexed drumming against her tankard. She glared at the self-proclaimed Fereldan prince, and in a fit of aggravated spontaneity, she grabbed her beverage and stomped to his table. There had been enough rabble attributed to Fereldan refugees; it was beginning to make earning coin difficult for an honest woman.

“You!” she slammed her free hand against his table. “You need to keep your voice down!”

His head wobbled as he turned to Hawke, and he squinted his eyes with a remarkable lack of coordination. He slammed his fist on the table, the impact unbalancing the already unsteady table and consequently spilling some of his drink. Hawke decided that was a good thing.

“You keep voice… your voice down!”

“How very clever,” Hawke snapped back with a painful sarcasm.

He stared at her with redden eyes, and she realized how remarkably similar he looked to King Cailan, if Cailan had been a drunken mess. Hawke took the bench across from him, placing her own drink on the table.

“You’re Fereldan?” she asked.

He pointed behind her, and Hawke turned around, curious. Seeing nothing of importance, she looked back and realized he was waving an unstable finger at her.

“I’m Fereldan.  _Prince_ ,” he corrected, slurring the soft end of his last word.

“Really? Because you’re acting like a Fereldan  _ass_ ,” Hawke retorted. “And that’s the last thing we Fereldans need here.”

“You… You’re Fer—” he hiccuped “—Fereldan?”

Hawke smirked unkindly and nodded. Her new acquaintance squinted again, scrutinizing her face with an intoxicated concentration.

“Is that why? Because… You look like her,” he declared, his voice too loud. Hawke ignored the stares he attracted.

“What? Like whom?”

“Like the Hero.” Tears formed in his eyes, and he averted his gaze from Hawke.

She was confronted with an unexpected empathy for the man who had caused her such aggravation only minutes earlier. Hawke didn’t know much about the Highever noble who had sacrificed herself to save Ferelden, but she knew enough about loss, especially loss to the vile darkspawn, to feel for him.

“You knew her?”

But even an empathetic Hawke was emotionally inadequate for consolation. 

“I  _loved_  her!” he bellowed back at Hawke. The so-called prince clumsily swiped his forearm over the table, throwing his drink to the sticky floor. He grabbed his head with both hands and leaned into the table, shaking as he muttered, “And she betrayed me… Me! Me. For traitor… For that traitor. And he’s alive and… And Duncan’s dead and… her… she’s dead. And I want to be, too.”

Hawke glanced away from the sobbing man across from her and inadvertently made eye-contact with an annoyed Hanged Man regular. She scowled and aggressively thrust her armored chest forward, a display of intimidation that seemed to satisfied the Free Marcher’s contempt. Hawke flicked her fellow Fereldan’s forearm.

“Fereldan,” she barked, flicking him again. He didn’t respond so she slapped her fingertips against his forehead.

“Hey!”

“Look…” she huffed, interlocking her fingers and resting her hands on the table. Hawke frowned and then huffed in exasperation. “What’s your name?”

He lazily propped his chin up. “Alisshhtar. Ali—Alistair.”

“Well, Alistair,” she began with a callous authority, “If you really want to be dead, then do everyone here a favor and get on with it.”

Hawke was never one for niceties. A brutal wake-up call was always more effective.

“Hey!” he said again, pushing himself off the table. “That’s not.. That’s mean. I need another… Two more… Where is my drink?”

“No more drinks,” Hawke declared. “If you are royalty, by the Maker you need to act like it.”

Alistair swayed gently as he glared at her. “I don… I don’t need to listen to you.”

“I suppose not,” Hawke conceded stoically.

She glowered at Alistair, watching him with disappointment as he swayed back and forth, looking sad and lonely and disgusted with himself. Hawke sneered when she felt that tingle of compassion warm her chest. She grabbed a swig from her own beverage and slammed the mug against the wobbly table.

“Look, I get it. I lost loved ones to darkspawn, too. But we get a second chance now, if we want it.”

Alistair only hiccuped again, and she wondered if he’d even be able to retain any of her words come tomorrow morning. She sighed, realizing she was probably wasting her time. He made an absurdly offensive expression at her, and then crafted a cushion for his face by resting his forearms on the table. Hawke rolled her eyes as he collapsed into his arms.

Isabela had failed to show up, and now this Alistair had made it a point to announce to everyone in Lowtown that he was a prince unfit to act like a decent man.

As if she hadn’t struggled enough to prove outsiders were honest and capable workers.

Hawke downed the rest of her beverage, ignoring the unpleasant warmth that accentuated the worst of the local brew. Alistair starting snoring. She was tempted to nudge him awake, to remind him that whatever haunted him in Ferelden didn’t have to haunt him here. Instead, she dropped a few coins on the table.

Alistair was Fereldan, and every Fereldan came to Kirkwall with a new beginning.The fresh start was his, if he wanted it.

But Hawke learned a year ago that a person could only claim a clean slate for oneself.  

 

 


End file.
